


sleepless in __________

by fruti2flutie



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/F, No Plot/Plotless, Sharing a Bed, oh WHOOps i forgot to tag the ship lmao, rated for allusions to violence & self-endangerment ;;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26580715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruti2flutie/pseuds/fruti2flutie
Summary: Counting sheep has never been enough for a lone wolf trying to find peace in the night. Listening to the whispers of the woman next to her... helps.
Relationships: Cynthia Moore/Abigail Jones
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	sleepless in __________

**Author's Note:**

> -i took creative liberty with abbie (spelled the Netflix USA Translation way) so forgive me if this fic doesn't fit ur image of her ;;  
> -takes place during case 2 bc i saw Sharing a Bed with women & went feral  
> -title taken from epik high's album of the same name ♡

In this elegant hotel, golden light illuminating every room, the thread count of these bed sheets must be well into the upper hundreds. And yet to Abbie, the blanket feels like sandpaper resting on her skin. The mattress is too soft, cloud-like and gentle, and the foam of the pillow molds into the shape of her head perfectly. All these characteristics are contradictions fit specifically for her as she tries to get comfortable in this bed of discomfort.

Honestly, Abbie prefers sleeping on shitty couches in dingy motels. She'd rather have the tougher cushions, the rougher fibers. The ache it leaves in her back is a pain she's grown used to, along with the crick in her neck that's never quite gone away.

If she truly had her way this time around, she'd be sleeping on the floor at the farthest corner of the communal room. Unfortunately, there are too many people involved in this con to avoid getting stepped on, so that option was stamped out right away. The couches here are too lavish for her liking, too exposed for moments of sociability, and she hates the idea of someone trying to strike up a conversation before she's had a morning's shower. The only choices available to her, then, had been sharing a bedroom. 

Laurent, who is too flirtatious and conniving for his own good, was completely out of the question. Abbie had refused Edamura due to her distrust of him — not because he would try anything but because she's seen how often he flails his limbs when conscious and doesn't want to see the sleeping version. She also hadn't vied for rooming by herself, knowing the space is too confined and empty for her own restless mind.

So, sharing a bed with Cynthia is inevitable. The king-size can fit them both with room to spare. Abbie can deal with this arrangement over the others, if only for a few days.

Cynthia is a good con-artist. Back in Los Angeles, her act posing as a government official twice her age almost had Abbie fooled. She exudes confidence, her words sharp and calculated as she plays a role to cheat the corrupt. Beyond that, though, she's just a woman, maybe a few years older, who likes to cook and dresses well. She might be French, with an accent similar to Laurent's, though Abbie has never asked outright. 

The job they have is based on intuition, assumptions, and deceit — nowhere in a swindler's manual does it say to make friends. 

Abbie doesn't have friends. Years and years have gone by without them. Once upon a time she had a family who'd loved her, and once upon a time she had classmates who'd danced alongside her. 

Life is unpredictable, war is inevitable, and pain is never-ending. 

She'd traded ballet shoes for combat boots, satin for camouflage, pirouette for punch. And when she'd switched to a career of swindling, all that changed was the amount of hits she'd have to take and give. Con-artists are in a category of their own, variety in the deception, so as she continues to ally with Laurent she keeps the company at arm's length. 

She barely knows anyone here beyond their last names. Why would she need to bother learning anything else so trivial? Connections are dead weight. Human lives are fleeting. 

Abbie doesn't _need_ anyone. 

The bathroom door opens, and Abbie instinctively turns her head.

When Cynthia emerges, lavender pajamas made of silk hanging loosely from her body, there's a scent of roses that follows her. Her red hair is damp, towel around her neck, and her skin is shining from moisturizer. She has a natural beauty, enhanced by the makeup she wears. When she's without it, the freckles across her pale cheeks resemble sparkles of light.

No, Abbie doesn't stare, but she does take an extra glance when Cynthia sits at the edge of the bed. 

"Are you still awake?" 

Abbie rolls her eyes. What a useless question to ask someone so obviously trying to sleep. "It's too bright," she mutters, turning away from the other woman. 

Then, the bedside lamp shuts off. "How is that?" Cynthia asks. 

"Not worse."

Cynthia chuckles. When she laughs, it's impossible for the average person to deduce whether she's being genuine or not. Abbie is not the average person, so she knows the difference. 

"I won't be up too long," Cynthia promises. "I'll want to get enough sleep so I'm prepared for our big day tomorrow. Team Confidence is hitting the skies once more — how exciting!"

"You're not the one in the air." 

Laying flat on her back, careful not to hit Abbie, Cynthia says, "Well, yes, but we are _Team_ Confidence. I'm sure everyone would care to agree each of us plays an important role in the master plan."

Again, Abbie rolls her eyes. "Who else can fly a plane?"

"You're getting bogged down by the details," Cynthia chides. She sighs. "But yes, Abbie, only you can. You're still one hell of a pilot. We're honored to have you aboard." 

She's being playful, friendly. 

"I've heard careers in the air get twice as many dates, too." 

She's almost as bad as Laurent.

Abbie turns her back to Cynthia, onto her side, and closes her eyes. "Your hair is getting the bed wet."

"My apologies," Cynthia says, making no effort to sound as such. Abbie can only hear her humming under her breath, an unknown tune that sounds like it belongs in a children's show. 

Minutes go by like this. Cynthia doesn't sleep right away, finding things to do in the night that Abbie can only visualize in her subconscious. Rummaging through the cabinets under the bathroom sink in search of a blowdryer. Crossing the room to pick a suitable outfit for tomorrow. Sitting on the windowsill, tucking one foot under her thigh, and staring at the bustle of cars and city lights. Her presence itself gives such a clear image — she's the actress in the room, the best in the con, rivaling all the masks Abbie keeps under her belt.

When she's finally decided to return to the bed, Cynthia declares softly, "Good night, Abbie."

Abbie doesn't respond. She breathes in deeply, feels the covers lift beside her, and absently wonders when she last had a good night.

——

No more than three hours later, Abbie awakens gasping for air. Her body aches in an unwelcomingly familiar way, trembling like the last leaf of a tree in fall. Memories had flooded into her dreaming mind, drowning her senses with visions of the scorching sun, bloodied fists, gunshots. Lifeless bodies at her feet. High-pitched ringing. The auditorium. Planes. 

Nightmares.

They happen. 

She blinks away the darkness behind her eyelids in favor of the darkness in front of her, bleak and quiet. The darkness has never been a stranger; once the spotlight flickered out, that's all she knew. 

An emptiness. Desolation. 

Why is she here? Why is she trying to sleep in this grand hotel by the seaside? Why is she a visitor to this foreign, larger-than-life Asian country? Why hasn't she made a place to call home? What keeps her from finding one? 

She could leave. Get up from the bed, grab the first flight out of the continent, and take off. It would be easy, honestly. She could fake an identity and become an office worker in the city. She could live off the land and run her own farm. She could speed down the highway without a care in the world. She could abandon this instance of fraud for yet another life built on a lie. She'd be alone again. 

She'd be alone, and she'd be fine. _You can only trust yourself_ — the mantra she lives by, because being a con-artist means anyone can betray you. Living like this is a constant battle of wits with the people you call your teammates. 

You're alone.

It happens.

And it's scary. 

"Are you awake?" 

Abbie doesn't turn. Cynthia's question isn't an invitation to speak, despite how it sounds. It's an announcement that she will, without missing a beat, because that's how she is.

"I think I ate too much for dinner."

Abbie doesn't laugh, but she wants to. The declaration is one that comes out of nowhere as a total contrast to Abbie's silent panic. It feels very unfitting for their profession, which requires them to plan steps ahead to deceive their foes, but very fitting for this rare moment of vulnerability between the two women. Cynthia's voice sounds different as a whisper — looser, huskier, laced with an exhaustion that only a fellow con-artist can recognize. 

So Abbie listens to her.

"I feel so bloated," Cynthia bemoans. "Rice, noodles, barbequed pork, Hainanese chicken... I should've stopped once the soup arrived, but the chili crab afterward was absolutely exquisite. Nothing beats authentic Asian cuisine." She rolls onto her side, and Abbie can feel her breath on her neck. "Actually, it was the first time I had Singaporean food, so I was pleasantly surprised."

The darkness is a little easier to see into, now, so Abbie stares at the shape of her own fingertips curled atop the blanket. It takes a few tries, but she gets her voice out in the form of a hushed, mundane, interrogative statement Cynthia is waiting for. 

"It wasn't too spicy for you?"

Cynthia's conflicted expression melts into her words, low and careful. "Well, I'm not a big fan spice, but dishes were enhanced by the spiciness, with the spice level at an impeccable level to balance out heat with flavor." She lets out a giggle. "I kept drinking water, though. I worked up quite a sweat."

"Yuck." 

A light push onto Abbie's back. Playful. Friendly. 

"The dessert was also delightful, especially with that European twist," Cynthia continues. "Adding a caramel swirl to the pandan chiffon cake really enhanced the aroma, without making it overly sugary. I really wanted to try the ice cream sandwiches, but I was just _so_ full."

Now, this time, Abbie does laugh. Never a full blown fit, never longer than a second, never louder than a cough. Never in situations where someone could climb over her walls and infiltrate her defenses. But now — now, it's okay. 

"What's so funny? A grown woman is allowed to enjoy sweets," Cynthia defends, petulant. "I have _sophisticated_ tastes, Abbie. I'm an avid wine drinker." She exhales loudly. "Coffee, too. I've always had a taste for it. Have you tried Edamame's hand drip coffee? He's surprisingly well-versed in brewing it."

"Looks like he's trying to show off," Abbie mutters. 

"Maybe," Cynthia says, a smile wedged between the syllables. She leans closer, centimeters to millimeters. "So, do you like Edamame?"

Years ago, Abbie remembers meeting a Japanese man in a suit, baby-faced and naive. She remembers the taste of the lobster dinner. She remembers giving a chokehold in front of the door. She remembers the conversations of confusion and hesitation in the dark. She remembers hitting the ground, hearing a gun cock, and _I'll kill her_ echoing throughout the warehouse. 

"He's a liability," Abbie declares. "The guy is too unpredictable. He doesn't even know what he's doing. I still don't get why Laurent chose him, even after all this time."

"That wasn't an answer," Cynthia says, lips pouted. She pulls the blanket closer to herself, leaving Abbie's torso bare and giving her the urge to pull it back. (She doesn't.) "I like Edamame. Laurent _definitely_ likes him. He's charming, and his accent is nice to listen to. Plus, I think he's very cute, like a little puppy-dog that makes you want to care for it."

"He was in jail."

"But he's out now," Cynthia counters, "and I just want to pinch his cheek sometimes. Don't you feel like that?"

"No." Abbie blinks, slow and languid. "I feel like punching him. I've already hit him a few times."

Cynthia draws out a hum, tutting her tongue once she coos, "Oh, Abbie. You should meditate at the beach with me, when you have the time. It might help with your aggression." 

All of them are criminals, in one way or another, with dramatic histories linked to the universe screwing them over. That means there is little room to judge how they each live the life they've been stuck with. No one reprimands Cynthia's propensity for drinking wine, Laurent's promiscuity, Abbie's violence. No one but Edamura has tried, because his tragedy hadn't led him any farther than small-time fraud before joining the group. 

Abbie doesn't like fighting. She doesn't like getting hurt or hurting others. She doesn't like experiencing pain, the crimson bandages and purpling bruises, but she needs them to remind herself that she can feel _something._ She needs to know that she's still alive, somehow, despite not knowing what happiness or sorrow means anymore. She's never fully grasped her emotions, never understood what to do with the anger that bubbles like magma inside her body, so she turns to extremes that bring her close to the edge. 

Military training. Backflips on wet tile. Boxing rings. Dirt bike racing. Planes. 

God, Abbie hates it all. 

"You're doing well out there." A hand pulls the covers over Abbie's exposed shoulder. "Flying, I mean. It's quite the feat. You took to piloting like a fish to water. You're going to do great."

The words might be hollow. They might be honest encouragement. Abbie will never understand Cynthia, and Cynthia will never understand her. But that doesn't mean they'll stop exchanging these meaningless sentiments in the dead of night. 

"You're not alone, Abbie. Don't forget that you have people on the ground cheering for you."

Abbie closes her eyes. 

"And I'm here, too."

In time, she falls asleep.

——

Abbie is not enveloped in the embrace of a loved one when she awakens, but she feels the warmth of a body pressed behind her, the tickle of long hair against her shoulder. 

And that is enough.


End file.
